


Brimstone Under Rain

by GinForInk



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blood and Injury, Graphic Description, Half-Demon Hyuck, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, Monster Hunters, Sadism, Sex Magic, Weapons, poor medical practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26481682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinForInk/pseuds/GinForInk
Summary: Monster hunter boyfriends in a tiny house on wheels.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 19
Kudos: 252





	Brimstone Under Rain

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: I decided that this fic doesn't really have any violence, so it doesn't warrant the graphic depictions of violence tag, but there is some shoddy medical work done on a pretty nasty injury and some brief background on how it was acquired. Please be warned. 
> 
> It's my first NCT fic! Also my first fic in present tense. Hope you enjoy!

It’s dusk when the rain comes, just a trickle through the leaves and a steady rush far overhead. Mark won’t have to put out the fire later, but he has a few minutes before the downpour makes its way through the leaves and onto the bare dirt of the campsite. There’s more than enough time to pack up the pot he cooked in and take the dishes inside, but he won’t be able to wash them without getting soaked. They’ll stink up the whole trailer unless they waste the precious water supply. 

A big drop slips off the leaves over the picnic table and splatters on tan skin. Donghyuck wakes with a quiet hiss and rubs a hand slowly over his cheek. He flicks droplets off his hand. The old picnic table’s bench sags and creaks as he moves. A few more fat drops patter around them, making dark wet marks on the dirt within the ring of firelight. “You didn’t wash the dishes,” Donghyuck says. His voice has a rare undertone of iron across iron, like his throat is grinding his words to pieces on its way out. 

“It’s only been fifteen minutes,” Mark says. 

Light flashes above the trees, flashbulb through the filter of dark leaves, and then the blackness crowds in on the orange firelight again. A long low rumble sounds from far away, like the night grumbling an old argument to people who aren’t listening. Donghyuck turns from the fire to stare off through the campsite, but his eyes keep the reflection of the flames for a little while, red coals in his soft face. 

There’s only one other camping plot filled, an RV a hundred yards away nearer the bathrooms where a single light post shines an otherworldly green. There’s a man there, shuffling quickly from his fire to the door. His beard looks like moss from a distance, and the light turns him and his RV the color of a shed exoskeleton. 

Donghyuck stands, stretches, tosses his empty bowl and spoon in the pot. He reaches for Mark’s too. “I got these,” he says. “Get everything inside.” He grabs the pot by its iron handle and lifts it from the fire. The evening’s stew is already packed in plastic containers. Mark watches him lug the pot away towards the trough sinks nearer the bathrooms, holding the fire-hot base away from his clothes. 

Mark takes a deep, bracing breath of the rainy air that shakes in and out of his lungs. He grimaces and stands. 

Every step sends a sour pain radiating through his upper thigh. His jaw clenches as he gathers the cushions from the picnic table. The chair goes inside too, and the coals, the kindling, the lighter fluid, the leftovers. He sets everything on what passes for a back porch, two feet of boards sticking out at the back of their tiny house on wheels. That way he only needs to climb the stairs once. Rain drips in a growing curtain off the porch roof overhead, tapping against Mark’s hair. He holds his breath and drags himself up the stairs with his arms and one leg. The blistering sting flares a little as he stands.

Inside, the firelight through the windows only reaches the loft. The distant light from the bathrooms catches pale green in the curtains along the right side of the trailer. Mark moves to the couch and finds the handle on memory, lifting the compartment and storing the chair inside where he knows there’s room next to the shotgun’s case. He tosses the cushions on the back of the couch again. He knows where each goes by the silhouettes of jars and books on the windowsill above. 

He built this couch. He made the ledge that keeps the books and jars from falling off the windowsills when they drive down bumpy roads. He sanded and varnished the coffee table he’s trying not to bump his knees against, the one that slides right over the couch when they need the floorspace. He laid the floor, learned how to slot the wood together and finish the edges from a YouTube video. He made the counter top he leans against as he slides out the storage boxes shelved in the loft staircase and stows the lighter fluid. 

Donghyuck made the stairs. It’s why they’re uneven. It was Mark who glued the old carpet samples to them so they didn’t slip sideways as they crawled up. 

Mark really hates to use the toilet in the trailer when they’re in a campsite, composting or not. It’s never hard to deal with and rarely smells, but Mark has guts that can smoke out a flock of vultures and Donghyuck has a sensitive nose. Still, the bathroom is a hundred wet yards away. He shuts himself in the tiny space at the head of the trailer and prays that his intestines are merciful. 

By the time Donghyuck opens the door, the smell has mostly aired out the open windows. Donghyuck kicks off his shoes on the back porch as he leans on the open door, just a black cut-out against the sickly light of the bathroom lamppost. The fire has almost died. It still clings to Donghyuck’s bangs and glimmers on his eyes, but the loft is no longer visible. The rain rushes across the ground outside. Stray droplets sting cold on Mark’s face every few seconds when they find the windowsills above the couch. Occasionally drops pepper across the roof, but the fir tree Mark had parked under still soaks up most of the downpour. 

Donghyuck stands still in the doorway and the hissing noise of steam fills the air. He steps inside and closes the door. A black dark just shy of absolute falls over the room. “Couldn’t make it upstairs?” Donghyuck says. His footsteps creak around the coffee table. His shadow passes the couch. 

“I think I should change the bandages down here and not in the loft,” Mark says. 

“You didn’t get the first aid kit out.” 

The pot clatters onto the shelf under the sink, sound unmoored in the utter darkness under the loft. Mark listens to the clink and tap of every spoon and cup finding its exact position on the cramped shelves like puzzle pieces sliding magnetically into place.

“Can you get the bandages?” Mark says. “And close the windows?” 

“You sure you even need to?” Donghyuck says. “You just changed them this morning. You said it wasn’t that bad.” 

Mark grits his teeth. The damp, hot feeling of pus and blood sticks his sweatpants to his thigh. He’d seen the deep red seeping through as he sat on the toilet. “I need to change them. You can go back to sleep.” 

“K. You close the windows though.” 

The bathroom door bumps open. Mark presses his palms against the edge of the couch, preparing himself to stand. A familiar two-note squeak comes from the bathroom cabinets, then the shuffle of plastic under the sink and a box bumping lightly into the door. Mark had made those doors. He’d screwed those hinges on himself. He needs to oil them, but the squeak is often what tells him where Donghyuck is late at night when he wakes in the loft and finds the bed empty. 

“Stinks in here,” Donghyuck says. 

“Uh-huh. Still want me to close the windows?” 

“It’s your books getting soaked,” Donghyuck says. “Not mine.” 

Mark stands slowly on his left leg and pivots to close the window. Small yellow squares of light gleam through the black depth of the campsite. Mark squints and the shape of the RV forms around them, still ghastly in the light of the bathroom lamppost. Nothing moves against the light there. A few embers flicker in their own dying firepit. 

“Want me to turn the lights on?” Donghyuck says, his voice suddenly from the front door again.

“I don’t think the batteries charged much today,” Mark says. “Better save it.” 

“How are you going to change your bandages without the lights on?” 

“I’ll turn them on when I start,” he says. “Go ahead and sleep.” Mark wobbles to the windows over the fold-out dining table on the opposite side of the trailer, breathing slow and deep as he forces his leg to take the weight. He leans on the top of each window pane until they slide shut.

“Fine.” 

Donghyuck’s shadow passes over the windows, disappearing above them as he climbs the stairs. Shuffling follows his path across the bed, then the bump of drawers on the far end of the loft. Mark limps the three steps back to the couch and braces a hand on it, slowly lowering himself on his right side and sinking his left down after it. A large weight flops against the mattress in the loft, far away past the ledge. Mark sucks in a slow, quiet breath and works his sweatpants under his butt and down his thighs. He peels the fabric away from the bandages with his thumb.

The tangy smell of a raw wound enters the air. Mark pulls his pants back up and grabs the first-aid box. He stumbles towards the bathroom. His hand lands unerringly on the doorframe and slides left for the light switch. 

Two hands fasten so gently around his waist and pull him back through the dark. “Donghyuck, just let me take care of it,” Mark says. He plants his left foot, but Donghyuck tugs harder on his right hip and the whole leg buckles. His scrambling left hand finds the edge of the sink. The right locks onto a shelf. 

“Dumbass,” Donghyuck breathes. “I could smell it all day.” 

Mark lets go. He closes his eyes and it’s as if he doesn’t. Nothing changes. The hands on his waist guide him back. The coffee table skids hard across the floor. Donghyuck’s arm slides up his back and lowers him gently onto the couch. A slight breath of sulfur puffs across Mark’s nose.

A sharp fizzle bursts flatly through the space. Orange glows through the backs of Mark’s eyelids. 

“No fire in the house,” he murmurs. 

“You’re the one who didn’t charge the batteries,” Donghyuck says. The door on their old lantern squeaks open and then clicks shut. A tap comes from overhead as Donghyuck hangs it back on its hook. A warm presence fills the space between Mark’s knees. Two hands grab his sweatpants and pull. He lifts his hips and manages not to wince as they brush over the bandages. 

“Ah,” Donghyuck says. Mark opens his eyes. The lantern hangs with dead weight over them as if its chain is a solid rod. The candlelight is so dim that the light it casts on the ceiling is a deep red. Or maybe the flame itself is red. 

The light is for him. Donghyuck can see just fine in pitch blackness. 

Warm hands lift Mark’s leg from couch and prop it against the coffee table. Fingers poke insistently along the side of his thigh until the end of the bandages comes loose. Slowly, they begin to unwrap. The air is impossibly cool on Mark’s skin as the bandages peel away, icy and shivery even though the rest of his body is overwarm.

“You dumb fuck,” Donghyuck says. 

Mark stares at the ceiling. His heart pounds, but he knows better than to respond.

“You put holy water on it?” Donghyuck says. 

“Yeah.” 

The hands drop away. The warmth between Mark’s thighs disappears as Donghyuck stands into his field of view. His eyes hold the red candlelight the way diamonds do. He pads silently into the kitchen and grabs a pitcher from the hook it hangs on in the window, which he fills slowly, tilted under the shallow sink. 

His t-shirt hangs loosely around his neck, but his jeans cling so tightly to his thighs that mark can see the outline of muscle even in the candlelight. His jaw clenches and unclenches as he stares at the water flowing from the spout.

“Sorry,” Mark says. 

“You’d be even more of a dumbass if you didn’t put holy water on it,” Donghyuck says. 

“She got me good,” Mark said. 

“ _Just a few scratches_ ,” Donghyuck mimics. He flicks the sink off and grabs a dish cloth, then comes to stand in front of Mark. The red light of the candle flickers above his head. “You’ve been shaking like a small dog all day,” he says. “Please tell me you took painkiller.”

“We ran out,” Mark says. “I took the last of it when I woke up this morning.” 

Donghyuck snorts through his nose. “How did you expect to sleep?” He sinks back to his knees between Mark’s thighs and Mark forces his eyes shut. As the last of the bandages fall away and the pressure around his leg lets up, the cool air hits a wide patch of lacerations, the flesh swollen and raw around red welts that seep thick pus. 

Donghyuck pours water over it, the dish cloth braced to catch the spill. It slides right over the glistening mess across Mark’s thigh. He shuffles forward till his butt is on the edge and his leg is over the floor. The couch has seen plenty of blood, but it’s hard to clean. The floor is easier. 

Donghyuck breathes deeply through his nose. “This is the worst you’ve ever had,” Donghyuck said. “I told you I had her. You didn’t need to take this.” He rips open a pack of wipes. Mark throws an arm over his face, but he trembles as Donghyuck dabs at the gashes anyway. 

The demon had used a whip studded with broken glass. Nothing too deep, but deep enough to snag muscle and shred skin, a weapon intended to rip a body apart without caring if the person inside it died or not. She’d been worse than they’d prepared for. 

There’s a sharp, dragging pain inside Mark’s leg, and then the gentle clink of glass in the ashtray. “Dumbass,” Donghyuck breathes again. “Should have told me it was this bad yesterday. How the hell did you manage to dress this yourself?” There’s another drag of pain in the wound. Mark grips his own chest and holds his breath. “Look at me, Mark.” 

Mark rolls his head down and the room spins. Donghyuck holds something dark in his tweezers. His eyes shine bright red and heat snaps through Mark’s chest. “Denim,” Donghyuck says. “Stuck under the skin.” 

“I know,” Mark snaps. “I fucked this up. Just fix it.” 

“You’ll scar so bad.” 

“Hyuck.” 

Cool water pours over the wound again and Mark whimpers. 

Donghyuck’s hand grips the back of Mark’s thigh where it’s dripping with water and lowers his face so close to the mess on the surface of his thigh. He breathes in and his eyelashes flutter. Mark squirms. “It’s not desecrated,” he says. “No holy water either.” His breath is burning hot against the wound. Mark grabs his hair and pulls. 

Those red eyes gaze up at him, round on his cherubic face under his fluffy hair, all indistinct in the dim flicker of the lantern. “Do I need stitches?” Mark says. 

Donghyuck blinks slowly. His jaw hangs open. “You’ve stopped bleeding,” Donghyuck finally says, “and they’re not deep. I don’t think stitches will help much at this point. They might have been more useful last night.” 

“You suck at stitches anyway.” 

“You’re the medic.” 

Mark had considered stitches the night before as he sat in the bathtub watching blood flow down the drain, but the world kept swimming out of focus and his hands shook. Donghyuck’s rage still rang in his head. The demoness’s black blood on Donghyuck’s hands had stained Mark’s sides and his sleeves as Donghyuck lugged him back to the campsite. It filled the bathroom with the smell of brimstone until Mark’s eyes watered. Red had filled the bottom of the tub and covered his arms. 

He’d bound his shredded leg tightly like he couldn’t feel the glass stabbing deeper into his thigh. The red evidence had rinsed away under the showerhead. Donghyuck had lain absolutely still with his back to the house as Mark dragged himself into the loft. He’d fainted just as he reached the bed and woken the next morning to find the loft empty and his breakfast cold on the table. 

Donghyuck faces him now. Another blistering drag of denim has Mark’s back twisting against the couch. Another ripping pain. Another clink of glass. Mark’s exhausted lungs burn from gasps. He wipes drool from his chin. Down between his legs, Donghyuck breathes in quick little bursts through his open mouth and leans close. His sharp little teeth are red in the candlelight.

“If I hadn’t already killed her,” Donghyuck says, and the iron on iron scrape is back in his tone, “I’d be hunting her down now.” His lips land on the smooth wet skin of Mark’s inner thigh where the bloody water has dripped down. “Your pretty legs,” he breathes. 

“Like this doesn’t get you off just as much,” Mark says, and his voice shakes. 

Donghyuck’s mouth opens wide and reveals too many teeth. His eyes gleam red with their own light. Under the dim lantern, some of his wavy dark hair has begun to look like horns. He presses his tongue to the wetness on Mark’s skin and drags upwards until he’s just shy of the stinging wound. Mark yanks his leg away. 

“I won’t hurt you,” Donghyuck says. “Unless you ask me to. You know that.” 

The night is cool outside but sweat prickles under Mark’s shirt. His briefs stick to the backs of his thighs. 

“Th’ pain,” Mark gasps. “’s different when it's serious.” 

“Then don’t go jumping in next time when you’re already out of breath and I’ve got it together. You dumb shit.” 

“She could have hurt you.” 

Donghyuck jostles the thigh in his grip and Mark whimpers. When he squeezes his eyes shut, the red disappears into comforting darkness, but the tang of his own blood in the air is mixed with brimstone. His thin briefs betray him when his cock twitches. 

“Walking around with glass and denim in your leg all day,” Donghyuck hisses. Something else drags out of Mark’s leg with a feeling like tearing and he sobs. “Asking for infection.” 

“Can you—” 

Breath like lava pours across Mark’s leg. He slams a hand over his mouth and screams in his throat. When the burn fades, the pull of Donghyuck’s tweezers feels like nothing and Mark’s cock is fully hard. Donghyuck studies the wound like it’s a jigsaw puzzle, eyebrows tight with focus. His fingernails have become sharp little claws. “Disinfected,” he says. The wound steams. 

Mark’s head falls back against the cushions as the world goes fuzzy. For a long while, the tiny house is still but for the sound of rain dripping onto the roof. Occasionally glass clinks into the ashtray. Mark lies absolutely still, chest expanding and falling rapidly. Donghyuck carefully studies the wound. Only once, his red eyes dart to the front of Mark’s briefs where his hard-on has begun to wilt and disappear. 

Finally, Donghyuck shuffles his knees under himself and pinches the back of Mark’s knee. Mark opens his eyes and lifts his head. Donghyuck holds the tweezers in front of his face and runs a forked tongue over them, red eyes aglow under his lashes. A tiny moan rattles in Mark’s throat. “Let me tie you back up, babe,” Donghyuck says. Mark’s eyes roll back. 

As the wound steadily disappears under white gauze, Mark begins to squirm. “You know,” Donghyuck says. He wraps the gauze in another careful, tight band around the cotton. His claws scrape against Mark’s thigh as he passes the roll under his leg. 

“I know?” 

“You know I’ll help you with this stuff, right?” Donghyuck says. “You’re stupid and I hate that but I still want to help you.”

“You said I was a coward.” 

“You should have trusted me.”

“I didn’t want her to hurt you.” 

“That’s what makes you a coward.” 

Donghyuck rips the gauze with his teeth and tucks the loose end into the bindings. He wraps the two bands of hospital tape around the edges. The light glows a more natural yellow. Mark runs a thumb over the square of freckles on Donghyuck’s cheek. He pushes his fingers through Donghyuck’s fluffy hair and feels nothing but softness and heat. 

“You don’t have to prove you’re tough,” Donghyuck says. “I already know. You can pass out if you want to, just make sure I’m there so you don’t hit your head on the bathtub or something.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the gauze over the wound. A breath of sulfur slinks through the air and disappears again. 

Mark had hung that lantern. He’d found it in an antique store. He’d found the chain it hung from too. He’d stood on a ladder and screwed that hook into the beam. He’d bought that beam. Donghyuck lifted it into place, but he’d hammered and screwed the rest of the roof together. Donghyuck had been there when he hammered his thumb while trying to lay shingles. He’d laughed and sucked on it until his eyes glowed bright enough for the red to be seen in broad daylight. He’d given Mark a rash on his back, fucking him against the shingles. He’d rubbed cream on it twice a day until it healed. 

The tiny house had been Mark’s high school graduation gift to both of them, a place to stay while they were on the road. Donghyuck’s gift to him had been two silver swords. There had also been a set of leather handcuffs, but they accidentally left those in Haechan's mom’s house. If she finds them, it won’t be the worst thing her half-demon son has left lying around his childhood bedroom. 

Claws trail over the bandages again. “Your leg hurts,” Donghyuck says, “but do you know how sore you are?” 

“Hadn’t noticed.” 

“And your lungs.” 

Mark drags the rain-damp air into his chest again. He slowly tenses his good leg, then his shoulders, grimacing. Donghyuck nestles his face against Mark’s left thigh, eyes black and warm and human under the lantern. “You look like your mom right now,” Mark says. 

A brilliant flash of lightning fills the tiny house with white light, ghostly on Donghyuck’s face, followed by an immense crack of thunder. Mark jolts into a ball, curling in.

“Baby,” Donghyuck murmurs. “Can I help you sleep tonight?” 

Mark’s arms sink onto his lap. Fingers tangle in Donghyuck’s curly hair. “I’ll need it, yeah.” 

Another crackle of thunder slams down overhead as Donghyuck pulls Mark into the bathroom. The whole trailer shakes. Mark flinches so hard his arm slides off Donghyuck’s shoulder. Even in the absolute darkness, he easily catches the rim of the sink. 

The door closes and the light flicks on. The loft is low and cozy over them. Mark built it four inches above his own height to give them more room in the loft. There’s a blackened handprint on the shower ceiling and sword gash in the wall by the toilet, rough signatures memorializing rougher nights than this one. Donghyuck stands behind Mark with hands on the sink basin on either side of him as he brushes his teeth. 

Mark climbs into the loft on his hands and his left knee, Donghyuck’s hand braced under his butt. Thunder rolls over them. A long window runs along both sides of the loft and another slants down the roof. Closer to a city, they’d be able to watch the rain slide down the glass. As Mark pulls himself up onto the loft and towards the mattress, the lights in the RV by the bathrooms finally flickers off. Mark pauses and stares out the window. The outline of the vehicle is a bulbous green shape through the haze of rain. 

“I met him after I washed the dishes,” Donghyuck murmurs. “He’s a crazy old dude and he wanted to know if I believe in aliens.” 

Mark leaves the window and lies onto his right side with his head on the pillow. He closes his eyes. His teeth chatter. 

“Cold?” Donghyuck asks. 

“No.” 

Curtains rattle across the rod and the last of the light post’s sickly glow vanishes. Warm fingers with scraping claws find Mark’s briefs and pull them slowly down his legs, gentle over the bandages. “We’re not hunting again until you can take a punch to that thigh without flinching,” Donghyuck says. Mark starts a laugh that ends in a whine. 

The hands leave his legs. When they come back, regular fingernails scrape over his skin. Mark reaches over his head and finds the bottle that stands on the windowsill. He pushes it blindly towards Donghyuck, who takes it. A foil package rips open. The cap snaps. Thunder answers. “No hunting for you at least,” Donghyuck says. 

“Please, not without me,” Mark murmurs.

“You’ll have to beg, baby.” 

“Hyuckie, please don’t without me. If you get eaten by a vampire or something while I can’t help you I’ll seriously go insane. Please don’t.” 

“Tch.” Donghyuck shoves Mark’s good leg back. Mark slowly lifts the other. The lube on Donghyuck’s fingers is perfectly warm. Two rub against Mark’s hole, latex catching against his skin. Donghyuck strokes in, out, and a euphoric haze slinks up Mark’s veins, the only gift Donghyuck’s incubus father gave him. 

Mark’s mind fills like a helium balloon. Soreness whites out along his limbs until only the pleasure inside him and the stinging, aching pain in his leg remains. He floats away from their mattress and out over a deep, black lake of senselessness. Just before he sinks, warmth covers his chest and brushes against his cheek. Lips press so softly against the edge of his mouth. Sharp little teeth nip at him until he stirs and tilts his face into it. He opens his lips, and a forked tongue slides between his teeth. 

He can no longer feel his leg, nothing but the burn at his core. Then he can no longer feel the lips on his. The pleasure sinks him under. 

Thunder tumbles through the woods. The rain rattles close overhead on the roof. Donghyuck peels the condom off his fingers and tosses it over the edge of the loft and into the kitchen trashcan. He reaches above the window and takes down the shotgun. The magazine clicks as he checks that it’s loaded. He puts it back on its hooks. 

Donghyuck tosses blankets over Mark’s right leg, hips and chest, but leaves the bandages bare. He lays his head on Mark’s thigh, nose inches from covered wound. An echo of the campfire burns in his eyes as he stares into the dark and breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come visit me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/GinforInk).


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